Wooster Goes West
by TrevorL
Summary: Bertie and Jeeves head to America to meet a long-lost aunt and find themselves implicated in a familiar conspiracy.


**WOOSTER GOES WEST**

A short story of intrigue and adventure

By PG Woeful (aka Trevor Lambert)

With many apologies to Wodehouse.

 **Chapter 1**

If there is one thing that Doctor Colson, my erstwhile composition tutor, taught Bertram – and contemporaneous reports suggest he believed himself to have fallen short of even this meagre objective – it is that a story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. And where possible, in that order.

If this story has a definable beginning, then that beginning could only have been the moment when Jeeves disturbed a Wooster mid-afternoon nap with some unanticipated news.

"A telegram from your aunt inviting you to visit. As soon as possible, sir," he said, with all the sympathy of a man who has dodged a googly, and calmly turned to watch it bounce off the headbone of the wicket-keeper.

To say that this came as a surprise is rather like saying the popping of the South Sea Bubble raised a few eyebrows in Threadneedle Street. As far as I knew, Aunt Agatha was more disgruntled with me than she had ever been – although, as I have previously observed, I'm not sure I have ever known her to be truly gruntled – following the rummy affair of the Pekinese and Madeline Bassett (to whom I still need to apologise). As for Aunt Dahlia, as far as I was aware she was scouring the country for some ridiculous cow creamer – a misadventure into which she had tried to embroil me on more than one occasion.

It is a credit to the Wooster brain that these thoughts passed through the noggin in a matter of, well, no more than half a minute.

"How so, Jeeves?" said I, with, I thought, a gratifying display of insouciance. "Unless you've worked some kind of black magic with Aunt Agatha, I remain a non-gratis persona in those quarters. And the last I heard, Aunt Dahlia was pursuing some bovine silverware in Somerset."

"Whilst I anticipate a minor breakthrough in the former matter in the near future, sir, that is an accurate summary of the present situation."

"So why on Earth do either of them want to see me in such an intolerable hurry? I sense a dressing down, Jeeves. At least. And very probably a disinheritance."

Jeeves coughed the smallest of coughs. A cough that was less about clearing the throat than it was about clearing the conversational landscape for a carefully deployed bombshell.

"The telegram comes from your Aunt Beatrice, sir. She is insistent upon seeing you at the earliest opportunity."

Now, whilst I do not pretend to be any sort of genealogist, I like to think that I have a reasonable grasp of the Wooster family tree (or at least the part of it that still sucks up the sap, if you get my meaning). But for the life of me, I had never heard of an Aunt Beatrice.

"Jeeves," I said – with a smidgeon less insouciance than previously - "whether or not it is April the first, I do not believe it to be your place to play practical jokes on your betters. Life's tricky enough as it is without one's servant pulling the rug from beneath one for the sake of a small laugh beneath stairs. Well, I'm well ahead of you on this one, Jeeves. I possess no Aunt Beatrice."

Jeeves didn't blink. Indeed, as I think on it now, I am not sure he ever has blinked in my presence. Perhaps he waits for me to blink and then gets his blink in quickly whilst my eyes are closed. However, on this occasion I can be sure he did not blink, for I observed particularly carefully.

"I anticipated these circumstances, sir, and took the liberty of conducting some research before I brought you this message. I am assured that you do indeed have an aunt of that name. A long lost relative, as it were."

"Dash it, Jeeves! How on Earth does one lose an aunt?"

"I believe she married against the wishes of her mother and was subsequently, if I may use such a colourful phrase, sir, excommunicated."

It must have been a fair old to-do, I thought, for Grandmamma to get the Pope involved. This was all beginning to sound more like the plot of my latest read, 'Lady Don't Fall Backwards', than the day-to-day meanderings of a bon viveur.

"Oh!" I exclaimed – which, on reflection, was probably inadequate in the circumstances. "And who did she marry to create such a stir?"

"I believe the gentleman is a billionaire politician, sir."

"A billionaire indeed?" Until that point I hadn't truly realised that there were names for numbers over a million, assuming they stopped counting after that. But I quickly concluded that the chap wasn't short of loose change. "And she wants to see me. The omens are positive, Jeeves. Let's make haste. Pack the car immediately, I wish to meet this Aunt Beatrice today."

"I am afraid that will not be possible, sir. The journey is a long one."

"Ah, moved out of the area did she, Jeeves? Very wise in the circumstances. So where are we heading? Cornwall? Yorkshire? Good grief, man, tell me it's not Scotland."

"I fear your relative became an American citizen many years ago, sir. She resides in the capital of that country."

"New York!"

"Washington DC, sir."

I do wish he would stop correcting me like that.

 **Chapter 2**

To be frank, and without wishing to appear like some hack short story writer with no time to research his subject in much detail – heaven forbid – there is little to relate of our journey. It is sufficient to say that the passage was sublime.

Or at least I think I mean sublime. Come to think of it, sublime is usually considered to be on the opposite end of the lexicographical spectrum to ridiculous. Which I suppose suggests it means 'sensible'. Or have I got it the wrong way round? Does the 'ridiculous' mean ridiculously good? And so 'sublime' could mean unfit for porkers. Oh! I don't know. Let's just say that the passage went very satisfactorily and leave it at that.

Geography not being my finest subject (Mr Liddy, the geography master, like his colleague Doctor Colson, finding the Wooster nut a particularly tough one to crack), when we arrived on the East coast I little realised we had to travel several hundred more miles to reach my mislaid aunt.

I do mean East coast, don't I? I mean the edge that's closest to us. The bit you hit if you put your finger on a world map roughly in the region of London and then drag it to the left until you meet the former colonies.

We completed the remainder of our journey in the first-class section of a surprisingly luxurious steam train. My cabin would not have disgraced one of the smaller high-class hotels in London, although at one point – and without really thinking it through – I complained about the view. I was advised to sleep on the matter and if the view wasn't to my satisfaction to mention it to my cabin staff in the morning.

The next day, as I sheepishly made my way to breakfast – avoiding eye contact with the steward – I bumped into Jeeves heading in the other direction.

"What ho, Jeeves!" I ejaculated. "Wonderful journey, what?"

"Most comfortable, sir," he said, and had I not known better I would have thought there was the thought of a start of a hint of a smile upon his lips.

"Beautiful views," I said, trying to move the conversation on.

"Indeed, sir," replied my faithful companion. "At least, most of the time."

By the time I had thought of a riposte to this very clear dig at my previous night's faux pas, he had disappeared.

 **Chapter 3**

As we approached Washington, I felt that relations between the British contingent and the American side of the family might not be best forged in the white heat of ignorance. I previously had little need to know of American life but now I feared I might find myself at a disadvantage at the dinner table. For reasons best known to him, Jeeves decided to begin my brief with the political landscape of the country.

"There are two leading forces in American politics as I understand it, sir. The Republicans and the Democrats."

"Are you entirely sure about that, Jeeves? I thought they had a civil war to sort all that out."

"I believe the war was predicated on a desire to facilitate freedom for all citizens of this country and so create a democratic system of government which would unify the states of the North and the South. As far as I am aware it was not fought to establish a single party state."

I wasn't going to argue, Mr Magruder, the history teacher at my prep school, belonging to the same horde as Liddy and Colson before him in his inability to penetrate the Wooster grey matter.

"And how do you feel this information will help me, Jeeves? Really, man! What I need to know is does one pass the port to the left or the right? Does one stand up when a lady leaves the room or enters the room? That sort of thing."

"Sir, I felt the information might be of some use in ensuring the opportunities for contradictory conversations were minimised. I understand that your aunt's husband is of a Republican persuasion."

He went on to explain how I might best avoid rocking the Republican boat. In a kernel, it seemed to boil down to keeping my mouth shut and never questioning a man's right to own a gun and shoot his neighbour under vaguely defined circumstances.

This seemed a rum deal. Almost as rummy as the occasion when Chubby Walker turned up at the Drones announcing that from now on he wished to be known by his proper name, Alexander. He then proceeded to behave as if everyone who ever knew him (including his parents as far as I know) hadn't been calling him 'Chubby' all his life and would therefore have some difficulty adjusting to his newly-announced preferred nomenclature. As I said, a rum deal indeed.

As Jeeves and I arrived at my aunt's house in the centre of Washington DC, I couldn't help but be impressed. I had always thought that Guppy's great-uncle's spread was about as impressive as they come, covering, as it does, half the county of Lincolnshire. But what Beatrice's new home lacked in acreage, it more than made up for in architectural exuberance. With its giant dome and many columns, it was strangely reminiscent of a clubhouse at a course I had once played somewhere in South Buckinghamshire.

Aunt Beatrice's staff impressed me less. A man's man, for me, needs to stand in the background. Unobserved until he is needed and then appearing at one's elbow at just the right moment. These chaps were positively confrontational. I tried presenting my British passport and asserting my natural superiority but it was only when Jeeves produced the telegram from my aunt that we were allowed access to the building. And even then, only under close supervision.

I am quite sure that at least one of these men had a small gun in a shoulder strap beneath his suit, just like the detective in 'Lady Don't Fall Backwards'. It seemed that Jeeves' summary of Republican beliefs was – as I should have anticipated – on the button.

I suppose these billionaires must protect themselves from kidnap and the like, but it all seemed a little melodramatic to this Wooster. If Beatrice shared any characteristics with Aunts Agatha or Dahlia, no miscreant would have an earthly.

Several years ago, when I was stepping out with a young lady of Welsh extraction, and whose name escapes me for the moment, she and I went to see a stage show headlined by a magician called – if memory serves – The Great Splendido. The highlight of Splendido's act was to take a volunteer from the audience, place her (for it was invariably a pretty girl) into what appeared to be a wardrobe and – with a flourish – make her vanish on the spot. I understand that on most evenings he would flash his wand again and the volunteer would re-emerge, looking somewhat confused, from the box.

On this particular evening, my Celtic companion volunteered her services. The first part of the trick worked as described above, but when Splendido waved his wand and she failed to reappear he seemed as bamboozled as the rest of us. I still wonder whatever became of her.

So it was with Jeeves that night. One moment he was by my side, the next we were separated and he was nowhere to be seen. I can't pretend that I didn't find this a little disconcerting – and so unlike Jeeves.

Now I do not wish to create the impression that Wooster is entirely dependent on his man. One hasn't got this far through life without a little self-reliance. But it has to be accepted that if two heads are better than one, then Jeeves' is the head with which mine is best paired. It seems that whenever we are separated I happen to find myself in the worst scrapes.

And so it proved to be that evening.

 **Chapter 4**

I was led into a drawing room which appeared to be the size of three tennis courts – although no nets were in evidence. The walls were covered with giant paintings of foreboding-looking gentlemen whose eyes did not so much follow one around the room as jump into one's top pocket and expect to be carried for the journey.

At the centre of the room was a chaise longue that could not have been longuer. And upon it – diminutive yet indomitable – was a woman of indeterminate years. Hair knotted high and tight above a broad forehead, a determined, penetrating stare which put the portraits in their place, and a jutting, challenging chin. She was clearly, unquestionably, indisputably from the same stock as Agatha and Dahlia.

Here was Aunt Beatrice in all her glory.

"Bertram Wooster, I presume," she said, in the sort of transatlantic accent that Chuffy adopts for days after he has seen the latest Hollywood release at the Plaza.

"Aunt Beatrice!" I exclaimed, with a strange combination of fear and excitement, unsure of the category of aunt I was facing. "It is delightful to meet you at last."

"I'm sure it is, young man," she laughed. "And of course, your delight is in no way connected with your discovery of my advantageous matrimonial arrangement."

So, that was the way the land laid. I decided to counter her advancing bishop with a sacrificial blocking move from a conversational pawn.

"My dear Aunt, my visit was precipitated by your telegram which requested my presence at my earliest convenience. Had I known of your existence previously I should, of course, have visited before, regardless of your circumstances. As you know, I knew nothing of you until the day I received your missive."

She brought out her rook.

"Oh dear Bertie, don't take me so seriously. Although I am sure you would have not paid several hundred pounds on this journey had you not thought it might be to your financial advantage. Is that not the case?"

Checkmate.

I did my best to regain my composure.

"Aunt Beatrice, my curiosity was aroused by your message. It is not often one discovers a lost relative – or rather a lost relative discovers one."

"Rest easy, young Bertram. I am indeed surveying the younger generation of the family tree in preparation for writing my will."

"Tut, tut," said I, feeling it was the mot juste, "Don't speak of such things."

"Oh I have no plans to die for some time, Bertie. But in this country, to be without a will is like being without an automobile. It excludes one from so many conversational highways. Sadly, my search for a suitable inheritor has, to date, been an utter failure. You have no idea how many hopeless distant blood relations I have interviewed before I resorted to inviting you to cross the ocean."

I had the sense that I had been vaguely insulted, but couldn't quite put my finger upon it. I was about to open my mouth in the hope that my brain might find a suitable response before the vocal chords started their work, when the sound of a door, not being so much slammed as shot into its aperture from a twelve bore, resonated around the room.

"Who the hell is the Englishman in the servant's quarters?" broadcast (for there is no other word) an American accent sharp enough to divide continents. "I caught him showing Dole how to iron a newspaper. Is that what I pay these people for?"

Jeeves was clearly making himself at home.

"I believe it stops the newsprint coming off on the fingers," said I, possibly to myself given the lack of any discernable response.

"Allow me to introduce my husband," said my aunt. "Mr Charles Sinclair Milhous Stevenson the third."

It is a constant source of amazement to me that whilst the average English gentleman can do quite well enough thank you with, say, two or at most three names, and his servant can get through life with just the one, our American cousins seem to require a whole sentence.

I turned to meet my de facto uncle only to discover that the wall, which until that point I had thought to be some distance behind me, had somehow advanced several feet. Taking a couple of steps away I soon realised that the 'wall' was, in fact, my newly-discovered relative.

He truly was a giant of a man. At least seven feet tall by my estimation, and twice as wide. It was as if the body masses of Charleses Sinclair Milhous Stevenson the first, second and third had been combined into some kind of behemoth which now stood before me.

The first thing I noticed about Stevenson, apart from his size, was the burning red ferocity of his face. It suggested a blood pressure so high that I feared that at any moment he might soon head the same way as the unfortunate weasel in the children's nursery rhyme.

But the second thing to strike me – something that lives with me to this very day – were his glorious pantaloons. These sovereigns amongst trousers were made of the brightest yellow and pink check. The cut, particularly on such a large man, was a credit to the tailor's craft. If it is possible, dear reader, to be smitten by an inanimate object then it is fair to say that I was smittened right between the ocular receptors.

"A pleasure to meet you, Uncle," I said jovially, grabbing his hand to shake it and soon discovering I required both hands to complete this traditional greeting effectively.

"Mr Wooster," he replied in a deep, rumbling earthquake of a voice. He exhaled the fumes from an enormous stogey into the Wooster visage. "A pleasure to meet you too, of course."

A certain Miss Warwick once told me that dogs do not really understand the words one utters to them. Instead, they rely wholly on the tone of voice. Hence she could call out to one of her vengeful poodles "Begone, foul pooch, and never darken my door again" in joyful tones, and the foolish animal would rush towards her as if they had just been offered a lifetime of the finest beef fillets. So it was with Stevenson. His words said one thing but his voice gave a distinctly different message.

"As it happens, Mr Wooster," he said, looming over me in the same way a cat looks at a mouse before it descends for the jugular, "you may be able to do something for me."

 **Chapter 5**

He ushered me into another room. At the centre of the room was a huge oak desk upon which Stevenson deposited his ample posterior. Glancing around me I noticed that there didn't appear to be any discernable corners to the room. It was not round as such. More of an ovular shape, at a guess.

I glanced over his shoulder and saw a huge canvas mounted on the wall. I supposed it was intended to be a piece of art but it resembled nothing more to me than the sort of monotone splat that might be made if George Bernard Shaw were dropped thirty feet into a barrel of hair cream.

"Ah!" said Stevenson, "I see you're admiring my Pollock."

"Indeed. Most impressive," I replied, sincerely hoping he referred to the painting.

"Well, I don't know much about art, Mr Wooster. I can't stand the thing myself, but it cost a quarter of a million bucks, so I guess it must be good."

I felt I was beginning to get the measure of the man – an achievement which, taken literally, would have required a stepladder – and tried to change the subject.

"You mentioned you needed some sort of help."

He poured me a remarkably large single malt and invited me to take a seat. I soon began to find his shortcomings rather less objectionable. After all, I was in another country. The culture here was very different and perhaps I had got the wrong end of the stick.

"Mr Wooster, I'm about to tell you something which may sound odd to your English ears. I only ask your patience to hear the story through, for it is essential you understand my circumstances before I make my request."

"Go ahead," I said, settling into my seat. "I have no immediate plans before dinner."

And so, rather as the author of 'Lady Don't Fall Backwards' uses the occasional lumpen piece of exposition to move the story on during a slow patch, he began his tale.

"Mr Wooster. There is a disease spreading in this country. A disease as virulent and dangerous as any the world has ever faced. And it is down to people like me to stop it before it destroys us all."

"I get the picture," I said. "Influenza."

"Far worse. But let us call it influenza if it makes it easier." He shifted his position slightly as if reconsidering his approach. "Yes," he said, "just like influenza. And do you know how 'influenza' is spread in this country?"

I shook my head.

"The telephone, Mr Wooster. The telephone. Now the thing is, there's an office just across the way there," and he pointed out of the window. "And I'm very concerned about the people who work there. Do you know they spend most of their day on the telephone?"

I shook my head again, feeling I was not really keeping my own in the exchange.

"Well, they do. And I'm very concerned about them. Very concerned indeed. So I have had some of my scientific staff produce these."

With this, he produced what looked like a small disk with a mesh on one side, a metal plate on the other and fine wire extending from a small aperture.

"A telephone sanitizer?" I hazarded. Stevenson nodded with a smile which I would now call conspiratorial but at the time seemed simply the smile of a man who didn't get much practice at smiling and was trying one out for size. Gaining confidence, I warmed to my theme. "It neutralises the virus, no doubt, before it can spread. What a wonderful invention."

"As you like, Mr Wooster," said Stevenson with a sigh. "The thing is, I need to get these devices into all the telephones in that office as soon as possible. And I want to do it without any of the staff knowing about it."

"You want to avoid creating a panic, of course. Hypochondriacs will fly from the office like fleas jumping from a drowning tomcat."

"Yeah, I want to avoid creating a panic. Anyway, this is where you come in. I need a man I can rely on, Mr Wooster. A man who can be discreet. A man with a considerably smaller frame than my own."

I attempted to raise a quizzical eyebrow but, finding it impossible to lift one without the other following close behind, managed only an impression of slight surprise.

"Fact is, Wooster," he continued, "I don't have any keys to the d- place. You'll have to climb in through one of the windows. They always leave the window of the Administration Block open on account of Mrs Cooper's personal problem. Try that first. Or failing that..."

He paused and reached below his desk before handing me what I believe the author of 'Lady Don't Fall Backwards' would call a jemmy.

I appreciate that I don't come out of this part of the tale looking like the brightest button on the waistcoat when I admit that, even then, it didn't really click with old Bertram that there might have been anything untoward about Stevenson's suggestion.

And so, post-dinner, fuelled by several glasses of Chablis and carrying a jemmy in one hand, a bag of telephone sanitizers in the other, and a balaclava to protect me from the bitter winter weather over my head, I made my way into the night.

 **Chapter 6**

If you want someone to tell a tale, talk to Tuppy. I have seen Tuppy keep the Drones entranced with a simple anecdote about a girl and a kitten for nearly ninety minutes. He can spin the most enchanting yarn from the least promising materials.

Bertie's talents point in other directions. So I hope you'll bear with me as I, inadequately no doubt, try to distil the blurred events of that dispiriting evening into a page or two of vaguely compelling prose.

Stevenson had provided me with a rudimentary map which, even with my sense of direction, was adequate enough for me to find not only the building, but the very window to which Stevenson had referred, without too much difficulty.

However, happily for her, and inconveniently for me, Mrs Cooper's affliction had obviously been addressed one way or another, and the window was tightly shut. Reluctantly, and checking over my shoulder for passing voyeurs, I applied the jemmy to what appeared to be an appropriate gap and pressed with all my might. No movement.

Readjusting my position, I managed to find a way whereby if I rested my heels upon the window ledge and bent double, like a flamingo inspecting his toenails, I could apply my full weight to the very end of the jemmy. 'Give me but a lever long enough,' I recalled some Ancient Greek incanting, 'and I shall move the Earth'.

So it transpired with the window, which, after a few seconds of quiet resistance, shot open with a speed only rivalled by Foolish Fancy's exit from the gate at last week's 3.15 Handicap Steeplechase at Ascot.

Of course, as the window went up, so Bertie went down, crashing into an untidy heap on the pavement - in a style not entirely dissimilar to Foolish Fancy's appearance after his unfortunate encounter with the first fence.

So much for Ancient Greeks, I thought. No wonder you have to be cautious if one turns up on an anniversary with a parcel under the arm.

It took me some time to regain my senses and I could tell that more than my ego was bruised. Indeed, in the following days, it was difficult to find a square inch of the skin that wasn't tarnished by the unmistakable yellow-bluish tinge of human flesh that has made contact with concrete at a remarkable velocity.

It was whilst I was climbing through the window, one foot dangling out into the street, the other stuck firmly in an inconveniently placed wastepaper basket, that I began to question the overall sagacity of this project. Call me precognitive if you like (now there's a word to impress old Colson) but there was something about the detail that didn't seem quite right. For instance, why did Stevenson think it imprudent to equip me with a torch?

Instead, I was forced to clamber over all manner of objects in a style reminiscent of the worse for wear Rory Carmoyle trying to mount the wall at Rowcester Castle towards the end of his stag night celebrations.

Lifting a leg high above waist level and moving it approximately one hundred and seventy degrees to the left, in an attempt to avoid placing the foot on what appeared to be another wastebasket, I inadvertently knocked over an object from the desk behind me.

I dropped to the floor, partially to retrieve the object and partially to hide from any passer-by who may have heard the commotion from the street. Upon locating the object I discovered that, serendipitously, I had also found my quarry – for it was a telephone.

Carefully unscrewing the mouthpiece, I placed the sanitizer mesh side upwards, just as Stevenson had shown me. A perfect fit. I quickly reassembled the telephone and returned it to the desk.

Stevenson had dispatched me with twelve sanitizers and instructed me to place one in the telephone of every desk in the office. So, one down, eleven to go.

I suppose I should have put together some form of mnemonic to help me keep track of progress. But the fact of the matter is I did not. After blindly fumbling around from one desk to another and only having dealt with four telephones, I discovered I had somehow double backed on myself and found one that already contained a sanitizer.

This was a disaster. How on Earth was I supposed to keep track in the pitch black? Not even Jeeves, let alone Hercules, could have completed this labour without abject frustration and ultimate failure. I fell to my haunches feeling dejected.

As I crouched there, haunches beginning to complain a little under the strain of their new employment, I became aware of a beam of light sweeping across the room, not unlike the way the lighthouse at South Foreland sweeps its welcoming luminescence across the Channel. This particular beam, however, had more belligerent intentions for Bertie. After two or three traverses of the room it shone straight into the Wooster irises.

"OK, buddy," said a voice approximately an arm's length behind the source of the light. "Put the jemmy down, put your hands on head and pray to God you gotta good lawyer."

 **Chapter 7**

I have already admitted that my knowledge of the culture and language of the United States is – at best – limited, and my knowledge of police procedure even more so. I had seen a pre-feature short once featuring the police force from an area known as Keystone, and whilst I appreciate that the film was made primarily for entertainment purposes, I thought perhaps I could take some comfort from the knowledge that they spent more time falling off the back of speeding vans than they did beating the noggins of innocent suspects.

How wrong I was. The bruiser sitting opposite me in the police station's interview room right now bore no relation to the jolly fellows I had seen on the big screen.

"So, Mister…" Sergeant Haldeman paused, I suspect for dramatic effect, and consulted his notes. "Mister Wooster. You claim that when you were apprehended in the electoral offices of the Democratic party at twelve forty-seven this evening, in the dark, planting electronic devices in the communication facilities, carrying a jemmy and wearing a balaclava, that you were installing 'telephone sanitizers'," (I don't know how he vocalised the quotation marks around those words but I assure you he did) "for the protection of the staff."

"That is precisely my position."

"And Mr Charles Sinclair Milhous Stevenson the third asked you to do this."

"He will not thank me for saying so. But yes."

"Would it surprise you if I told you that he denies having asked you to do this?"

"Not in the slightest," I said, as breezily as I could manage, but seeing the way this was heading. I lowered my voice. "I think he was rather hoping to keep this all hush-hush."

"Really."

"Oh yes."

"Mr Wooster. This has been a long shift for me. I'm tired. I'm irritated and I'm getting more than a little angry." At this point he jumped out of the chair, grabbed my lapels and, through a process of jutting his face forward and sharply pulling my lapels (and by association my upper torso) reduced the distance between our noses to a more intimate quarter of an inch. "So you had better tell me the goddamned truth before I horsewhip you."

It could not be denied, dear reader. The outlook was bleak for old Bertie.

As I look back on my life there are a number of sounds which have great significance for me. Sounds which remind me of happy moments (such as the unexpected, satisfying 'click' of young Paul Hills' wallet opening at his brother's nuptial celebrations), or of less joyous times (viz, the 'crack' of Aunt Agatha's favourite vase as my demonstration of the perfect putt went badly awry in her sitting room). But no sound, not even the 'sloop' of my misjudged engagement ring leaving Madeline Basset's finger, nor the 'plop' as it hit the surface of the lake into which she threw it, has given me as much relief as the 'knock, knock' that came from the other side of the interview room door.

Sergeant Haldeman dropped me, as a curate might drop a topic at the dinner table if he spots it heading in an unsavoury direction. We both turned towards the door, I suspect with quite different expectations, to see a weathered face poke around it and announce:

"Sergeant. There's an English guy out here with a couple of reporters. I think you probably need to talk to them right away, sir."

As the Sergeant opened the door wider, to better enable his egress, I caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, but a becalming, reassuring, everything is going to be alright glimpse of Jeeves, standing in the corridor.

 **Chapter 8**

On the return journey to Blighty, Jeeves brought me up to speed with what had been happening whilst I was in the jug. I admit here and now that I was left feeling pretty sheepish about not working out the details of Stevenson's scam for myself.

"Tell me, Jeeves, how was Stevenson incriminated?" I asked. "I sense a Jeevesonian intervention at some point, like, if I may, some sinister force."

"I'm afraid I had to resort to somewhat duplicitous means, sir," he explained. "I placed a spare surveillance device into Mr Stevenson's own telephone. He made a number of incriminating calls during the course of the evening, which I arranged to be recorded by two gentlemen from the press. Having completed their analysis of the recordings they passed them on to the authorities."

"Journalists, Jeeves? Was that wise?"

"It was the only way I could ensure the story would reach the public domain and so facilitate your release, sir. I could only reveal my actions once they had published the story." He passed me a copy of the Washington Post, which I assume to be a local rag, not dissimilar to the Chiswick Gazette.

The headline, which dominated the top half of the page as Aunt Agatha dominates a whist game, read "STEVENSON INDICTED". I rapidly scanned the story.

"I say, Jeeves, I seem to come out of this scot-free," I exclaimed. "Let's see: 'British man completely exonerated', 'Unwitting accomplice', 'Stevenson's respectable facade fooled many people'. This is all very good."

"Indeed, sir, although you may prefer not to read the extracts from Mr Stevenson's recordings."

Well, of course that led my eye to that section as a rabbit is attracted to walnuts (or whatever the phrase is).

"Jeeves! He calls me a 'gullible limey half-wit'."

"Extraordinary, sir."

"A 'class one bozo with cotton wool between his ears'."

"Tut, tut."

"A 'lazy numbskull who wouldn't notice if his trousers were on fire'."

"Most regrettable, sir."

I harrumphed and fell into silence, saying little else for the remainder of the journey.

Stevenson was, by all accounts, ruined. And sadly, so was Aunt Beatrice. She left Stevenson immediately she became aware of his folly and was taken in by one of the Canadian Woosters. All chances of any meaningful inheritance were lost and my trip West had been a complete waste of time and money. Or at least, almost a complete waste.

Some days later, I was recovering from my ordeal in the company of half a bottle of claret when Jeeves appeared carrying a familiar recent acquisition.

"I couldn't help but notice, sir, that you appear to have taken delivery of a pair of trousers not dissimilar to those worn by Mr Stevenson the third."

This was no mere observation, I could tell. Jeeves was falling into his old habit of making an aesthetic judgement he was not equipped to make.

"Absolutely, Jeeves. In spite of your snobbish – and if I may say so (and I think I may) – ill-informed opinion, I consider them to be the height of sartorial elegance and had my tailor make a pair up for me upon my return. I thought they would go superbly with the jacket I obtained in Cannes."

"The two items do have a certain commonality," he conceded, realising he wasn't going to win this particular battle. "Perhaps you would like me to place the trousers in the same facility I stored the jacket, sir."

"Tiptop, Jeeves. That's the spirit."

"Very good, sir," said my factotum, and left the room carrying the trousers at arm's length, as if he were removing an angry-looking skunk.

A victory over Jeeves is a rare thing indeed, and one worth revelling in. I settled into the chaise longue to enjoy the moment.

Scant minutes could have passed before I was startled out of my reverie.

"Just a minute!" I cried to the empty room, for Jeeves was long gone. "Come to think of it, whatever happened to that jacket?"

 **THE END**


End file.
